


Gentle As I Hold Your Heart (Let Me Hold Your Pain)

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Begging, Crying, Dominance/submission, M/M, Pain, Slight Praise-Kink, Sub Crowley, Subspace, dom aziraphale, non-sexual bdsm, stress positions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 05:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20285893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes, Crowley needs to go down for Aziraphale when it doesn't have anything to do with sex.





	Gentle As I Hold Your Heart (Let Me Hold Your Pain)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Tadfield Advertiser / Good Omens kink meme.

The door to the bookshop flies open without a hand to push it, and Aziraphale immediately knows they're in trouble.

Crowley saunters in, his lanky, flowing gait flinging his knees all over the place, and behind him, at a snap of his fingers, the wooden doors slam shut again. "Angel! You around, angel? I brought alcohol."

His sunglasses have slipped halfway down his nose, exposing his brilliant, demonic eyes, and he doesn't even seem to notice as his gaze darts around the room.

Aziraphale, who'd been reading in his favorite chair in his favorite place at his favorite time of the day – closing time – winces. He places the book on the side table and gets to his feet.

Crowley's eyes snap to him. "There you are! Almost didn't see you. Look at this!" He holds up three bottles, two in one hand that bump against each other with an ugly clink of glass. "Something expensive to start with and something cheap to get things really rolling."

"That's... that's nice, dear."

Carefully, Aziraphale edges through the rows of bookshelves that house his prized possessions, until he's standing beside the register.

Up close, Crowley looks even more frazzled than his demeanor previously indicated. His shock of short, red hair is not so much artfully tousled and more all over the place, there's a tear in his sleeve and, interestingly, a scorch mark on his cheek. With a flourish, he places the wine bottles on the counter, uncorks one of the cheaper ones with a snap of his fingers and proceeds to drink half of it straight out the bottle.

His Adam's apple – which he already had before Adam was but a glint in the Almighty's eye – bobs with every swallow. He licks his lips. "Oh, this one is really bad. Outstanding. You're getting left behind here, angel."

When he holds out the bottle, his hands are shaking.

The concern that sparked in Aziraphale's belly when he first heard the demon come in flares into outright worry. "My dear, what happened?"

"Happened?" asks Crowley, taking another swig. It's not enough to get him drunk, considering their carefully cultivated alcohol tolerance, and he seems to be sorry about that, judging by the way his eyebrows draw together. "Whatever should have happened? Can I not drop by to see a friend when I'm in the area?"

He spreads his arms and spins around himself, a little wobbly on his feet. "Especially when that friend has such a nice, perfect-to-get-drunk-in bookssshp."

The bottle trembles rather alarmingly in his grasp and Aziraphale catches it quickly, before any liquor can spill out over his books.

Crowley stops spinning and fixes him with an expectant stare. Which means he focuses all his unblinking, cat-like attention on Aziraphale.

The angel takes a sip of the wine. It is... atrocious, actually. With a polite cough, he places the bottle on the table. "Let's move this to the- whoa!"

Crowley has appeared rather suddenly in his arms and presses his far too thin, bony body up against the angel's plumper form. His nose, where it pushes into the dip just under Aziraphale's ear, is icy cold. "Fuck me, angel."

Aziraphale stiffens. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

A cold tongue curls under his ear, far more dexterous than any human appendage could ever be.

Crowley is still shivering. Aziraphale catches him around the waist. "My dear, you really ought to tell me what happened."

"_Nothing_ happened," Crowley says irritably and draws back as quickly as he'd flung himself at Aziraphale.

He snatches up his bottle again, considers it, and swaps it for a full one.

Aziraphale reaches for him. "My dear."

The demon neatly evades his hand, steps around him and swaggers down the aisle, already a little more unsteady than he'd been when he came in. "Let's take this to the back, angel."

Aziraphale is... furious, of course, but also relieved because Crowley could just as well have walked out the front door again. Instead, he's still here. He needs Aziraphale for something, but apparently, he can't say it.

Aziraphale can hazard a pretty good guess as to what that is. What puzzles him is that he has no idea _why_ it is happening.

It's at that moment hat a police car whizzes past, sirens blaring.

From the backroom comes a noise that sounds like a chair falling over, followed by a nasty curse in a language that hadn't been spoken around these parts in a very long time.

Aziraphale snaps his own fingers and the blinds of the bookshop close themselves, the doorlock clicks, and the noise from outside fades. Then he picks up the last, untouched wine bottle and follows Crowley into the backroom.

The demon is sprawled over his favorite chair, feet up on the table, head tilted back against the wall to expose his long, white throat. "You know," he says without looking at Aziraphale, "If you don't want me, you could always just say no. Instead of the- the," he waves a hand. "Pushing thing."

Something squeezes hard in Aziraphale's chest, all the way down to his essence. "Crowley."

"I'd listen, you know. I'm not that sort of demon – I mean, I can be, but there's no fun in that, is there?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale snaps, a hard edge to his tone.

The demon startles. But he finally looks at him with huge, desperate eyes.

Aziraphale squares his shoulders. "This has been quite enough, my dear," he says.

Crowley's eyes narrow. "So you've said."

"On your knees."

"Aziraphale-"

"On your knees, Crowley. Now. I'm not going to ask again."

His words echo like a whip crack. Tense silence stretches between them, like very thin glass, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. For a fleeting moment, Aziraphale fears that Crowley might do just that – throw the proverbial punch. Crowley looks like he's fearing the same.

But it has been a long time since Aziraphale was last scared of shards and sharp edges between them. He keeps his posture carefully rigid, his face blank. In _control_.

Slowly, Crowley places the bottle on the desk. He takes his feet off the table and gets up; walks over to where the angel is standing. His lips move, as if he wants to say something, but no words came forth. His yellow gaze bores into Aziraphale's blue one as he sinks to his knees. It's only when the demon finally, finally averts his gaze - _yields_ – that Aziraphale dares to breathe again.

"Good boy."

Crowley jerks.

Aziraphale curls a hand around the back of his neck – not to encourage him to look up, just to let him know he's here.

Crowley lets out a shuddering breath and pushes ever so slightly into his touch.

"What do you need, dearest?" Aziraphale asks softly.

"I- My head." Crowley shudders. "I need to- to not think about it."

"It? What happened, I presume?"

"I can't tell you. I _can't_ tell you." He sounds desperate, and he's all but gasping for air.

"Alright," Aziraphale acquiesces. "You're going to tell me later, of course, but for now, you don't have to say anything."

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut in misery.

Aziraphale steps a little closer, so Crowley can lean his forehead against the angel's belly. His whole posture seems to melt, then: his shoulders slump and his spine bends into a very slight slouch.

Aziraphale rubs a thumb along the ridge of the demon's spine at the back of his neck. "Tell me again what our rules are."

"I-," Crowley stops, clears his throat. "You're the boss. You're in charge."

"And?"

"I do whatever you say."

His shoulders seem to loosen a little more. He curls his hand in his lap. "I have to obey all of your orders immediately and without protest, and without miracling or wishing."

"But?"

"- I'm allowed to ask questions if I think something is unclear, but I'm not allowed to refuse."

"Very good," says Aziraphale.

Crowley's ragged breathing is slowing gradually. "I'm not allowed to lie," he continues. "No- no storytelling. Honesty."

He tilts his head up, uncertainty writ clearly on his face. "That's a rule for both of us?"

It sounds like a question, and the squeezing in Aziraphale's chest is back. They've done this before. The demon should be sure of this – if whatever happened was enough to make him question even _this_... "Yes, my dear, that is a rule for both of us."

Crowley nods and goes back to rubbing his cheek against Aziraphale's sweater-clad belly. He sniffs the fabric, then darts his tongue out to lick it.

The angel tugs gently at his hair. "Tell me your safeword."

Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale tightens his grip.

"Aardvark," the demon says quickly, gulps, and does it again.

Aziraphale lets go, pushing his fingers into Crowley's hair. "Good boy. Now-," he steps back, leaving the demon to sway on his knees, trying to follow. "Get up from the floor, go upstairs and undress. Wait for me in the living room, on your knees."

Crowley hops up immediately, stumbles, and barely manages to catch himself on the table. The bottle rattles.

"And sober up, if you please?"

Crowley opens his mouth, probably to protest, and snaps it shut again. He focuses for a moment, face scrunching up, and the empty glass bottle makes a bubbling sound, filling itself. "Oh, that's a truly awful vintage."

"Indeed," Aziraphale agrees. "Now get going."

Crowley nods and heads for the door, keeping his eyes lowered.

Aziraphale watches him, assessing. He'll need to tread carefully as long as they have whatever-the-Sam-happened hang unspoken between them. But on the other hand, he has found over the years – against his initial expectations – that Crowley rarely seeks to challenge his authority. There was a period of uncertainty at the beginning, when they were first settling into this, but once Aziraphale had proven himself – as what, he is actually still not sure – the demon was ready to follow his lead.

That is, Aziraphale suspects, the reason why they have endured for so long. Crowley _wants_ to obey. To be praised for his successes and punished for misbehavior. To be a good boy.

A good boy who is currently not collecting brownie points by hesitating at the door. "Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"Will you-" Crowley's fingers tap against the door frame. "Do I need to clean up...?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "I'm not going to fuck you tonight."

A barely perceptible shudder runs down Crowley's back. He loves the angel talking dirty, as Aziraphale had squeezed out of him one night when they'd actually been fucking, in bed.

Once Crowley is gone, Aziraphale turns off the light in the backroom and heads up himself, to the kitchen.

He sets the kettle to boil and looks through his cupboards and fridge first. There's a cut-up watermelon in one vegetable-box and a frozen dead mouse in the other. He finds several brands of hot chocolate, of which he picks the one Crowley likes the most, and prepares a thermos. Preparations thus completed, he grabs two tall glasses and fills them with water, almost right up to the rim.

Then he pours himself a cup of tea, grabs yesterday's Times and heads to the living room, the two filled water glasses floating along behind him.

Crowley is waiting in the middle of the room, kneeling on a pillow he nicked from the couch. Well, Aziraphale hadn't told him not to, so he doesn't comment on it.

He looks lovely, as always. His body is as white as his throat. His wide shoulders slope down to a chest that's just defined enough not to look boyish, and tiny curls of hair lead all the way from the dip of his collarbone to below his navel, where his soft cock rests against his lovely thigh.

A particular warmth awakens in Aziraphale's belly at the sight: a stirring, physical in kind, pure and simple. He wants Crowley – he always wants Crowley.

But right now, Crowley is upset, and Aziraphale doesn't want their lust and desire and, eventually, pleasure to get tangled up in these feelings. Crowley can be as good at sorting his emotions into boxes as one gets when living six millennia among humankind – there is always a little bleed-through.

No, he wants to be taken out of his head, and Aziraphale is determined to give him that in the most straightforward, simplest way possible.

He places his tea and newspaper on the coffee table before turning to Crowley.

"From now on, you will only speak when absolutely necessary, or when spoken to. Do you understand?"

The demon's eyes flicker up to his. "Yes."

"Good. Stretch your arm out to the side, at shoulder height, with your palm turned up," Aziraphale instructs and grabs one of the floating, water-filled glasses.

Crowley does as he's been told, sitting up straight in the process, which always makes him look painfully poised. There's always an effortless grace to the way he holds himself, but it's never more apparent than like this.

"Press your fingers together and stretch them out. Keep your palm as flat as possible."

Aziraphale places the glass on the demon's open hand, then steps back. "Do not spill a drop," he warns.

Crowley gives a short nod, which sends a shudder through the glass, and yellow demon eyes widen in shock. He quickly stills himself.

Aziraphale walks around behind him, stealing a glance at his naked bottom. It's the prettiest arse he's seen in all his six thousand years – and that includes Cleopatra's.

He taps Crowley's other shoulder. "Same for the other hand."

Crowley obeys and Aziraphale puts the other glass where it belongs, then steps back a little to survey his handiwork.

The demon looks beautiful, like a painter's vision, a tableau vivant. Like the living scales of good and evil, weighing water against water, which carries its own kind of symbolism. The only thing that would make the view even better is if he were to unfold his wings, but that would disturb the glasses, and Aziraphale isn't so cruel as to ask it of him.

He settles onto the couch and picks up his tea, aware of Crowley's eyes on him. They haven't done this before and he is puzzled, but can't seem to find a way to frame the question as important enough to break Aziraphale's rule of silence.

The angel leaves him to his thinking – he will figure out the reason behind this soon enough – and picks up his newspaper. He's gotten halfway through it before his new shipment of modern books came in yesterday – the printed ones that he actually sells from time to time and can bear to part with because they come out of the factories in the thousands.

Aziraphale manages to work his way through the entire sports section – which he does read, with great joy because the rules of traditional, widespread sporting games don't change every damn year, thank you very much – before catching Crowley's first, uncomfortable shifting.

It's almost imperceptible: a stutter in his breathing, a twitch of his head. He's trying to suppress it.

Aziraphale looks up briefly, taking in the demon's form. Where he's been somewhat relaxed before, he is now even more tense he was downstairs. He's staring hard at the floor, lower lip drawn under one sharp eyetooth.

The angel turns back to his newspaper, finishing the sports section and moving on to politics – which he doesn't read quite as often, since the rules seem to change every _week_ – studiously ignoring the kneeling demon.

Over the next few minutes, Crowley's breathing turns laborious. He's still silent, but the weight of the water is starting to wear on him.

Aziraphale hides his smile behind the paper. At the beginning, the position does not look to be overly strenuous, and he himself had greatly underestimated his ability to hold it when Si- one of the young gentlemen from the discreet club he used to frequent had put him in it. They'd had a bet going, back then, that the angel wouldn't be able to make it twenty-five minutes without spilling. He'd left that night with his arse spanked crimson, and he hadn't been able to sit for a day with the way his buttocks burned.

Crowley lets out a soft grunt.

Aziraphale takes a sip of his tea. "How're you holding up?"

"F-fine."

The angel's lips quirk. "If you spill a drop, I'm going to paddle you."

"Ugh."

The muscles along Crowley's arms are so tense they're standing out by now, any med student's dream. A fine tremor works its way down his body. The demon notices and quickly corrects, almost over-corrects, and has to correct again as the water in both glasses licks dangerously around the rim.

Aziraphale folds his newspaper and checks the clock on one of the bookshelves that line the wall. "Eighteen minutes. I'm impressed. Let's see if we can get it to thirty."

He's being cruel, but he can't help it. Sweat is gathering on Crowley's skin, making it shine. Aziraphale just wants to drink the sight in for as long as he can.

Two minutes later, Crowley is panting openly, lips glinting with spit. "Angel," he gasps. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Pleading, yellow eyes look up at him. "I really can't."

"Shh. Be quiet and let me finish my tea."

Aziraphale takes his time with the second half. He manages to stretch two sips over three minutes.

Crowley bends his head, stares at the floor. He must be feeling it now, the strain of his muscles moving into cramping territory. He doesn't say a word, but the need to be good, to hold out, is written clearly on his face.

His left arm dips a little, just enough for the water to lick over the rim - but since it's water, the surface tension stops it from overflowing.

"You're losing position," Aziraphale warns.

Crowley jumps, eyes flying open. He glances to the side without moving his head, and tries to lift his arm again. His muscles won't obey. He grinds his teeth. A drop forms at the lip of the glass.

"Crowley," Aziraphale snaps.

The demon whimpers. "It hurts."

"I know it does, dear boy."

Aziraphale remembers, vividly, what it felt like: the edge of the pain turning sharper and sharper, the way the strength just bled out of him after a certain point. His mind desperately trying to assert dominance over his body – and ultimately, failing.

But Crowley has always been more enduring than him.

Aziraphale checks the clock. "You're almost through. Twenty-seven minutes."

Another whimper tears from Crowley's throat. "I won't make it another three."

"Of course you will."

Aziraphale walks up to him, takes in his shaking form. He's trembling all over now, flushed in the face and down his throat with effort.

"Please, Aziraphale," he whispers.

"Please, Aziraphale, what?"

The angel pokes his shoulder, feeling the muscle hard as wood beneath his fingertip.

Crowley cries out, but can't jerk away. "Sss-stop this."

"No."

"I can't- I can't-" Tears gather at the corners of his eyes. "Please. Please, please, _please_."

"Two minutes," Aziraphale comments, stroking his fingertip along Crowley's shoulder blade to rest it on the first bump of his spine. "You're being such a good boy right now. You don't want to ruin it on the last few meters, do you?"

A sob tears from the demon's throat. The first tear spills free, running down his cheek.

Aziraphale stops it with his thumb, scoops it up and brings it to his mouth. Crowley's tears are salty, just like a human's. "One more minute."

Crowley is crying openly now. He's shaking hard, like a human with hypothermia in the depth of winter. His fingers have curled, almost enough to touch the sides of the glasses, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. He's babbling.

"Angel, angel, Aziraphale, oh."

He can't seem to stop the noises. Aziraphale remembers how it helped him, back then, to vocalize his pain. And there was no place in his head for anything but the present.

Aziraphale pushes a hand into Crowley's short cropped hair. "Almost done, my dear. You're being so good."

"I- I- uhh."

"Ten seconds."

Crowley makes a noise like a wounded animal, all but broken.

"Three, two-," Aziraphale counts, eyes on the clock. "Done."

Crowley keels over. The glasses clatter to the floor, spilling their contents over the both of them. One cracks, but thankfully doesn't splinter, instead rolling away, off the rug and onto the wooden floor.

Aziraphale immediately goes down beside him. "Oh my dear, dear boy."

He's still heaving with sobs, his arms twitching uselessly at his side, but he tries to turn his head. "Are we- are we-," he breaks off, shutting his eyes.

"Yes, we are through," Aziraphale affirms. "You have done so well."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Crowley's demeanor changes. With a single minded focus, he reaches for Aziraphale – and since his arms are still out of commission and probably numb to boot, he does it with his whole body.

The angel awaits him with open arms, draws him close; miracles his sweater and shirt away for more skin contact.

Crowley is cold with sweat, shaking, and he whines at the sudden warmth of Aziraphale's body, pressing against it as if he wants to burrow into his chest.

Aziraphale strokes his hair and kisses his temple. "Yes, that's it. Come here, darling, you've been such a good boy."

"H-have I?" Crowley hiccups, his face half-mashed into Aziraphale's neck. It's always the first thing he does when they're done, and, coincidentally, what calms him down fastest. When he doesn't have to see, smell or feel anything other than Aziraphale. "B-been good? Good for you?"

"Yes, you have," Aziraphale says. "You have been very, very good for me."

"Even when I," he sniffs. "Even when I couldn't stop sss-speaking?"

"Even then. You did what you had to to bear it, and I am so, so proud of you."

Aziraphale runs his hands over every centimeter of exposed skin he can find – which is a lot, since Crowley is still naked – careful to keep his touches gentle, especially when it comes to Crowley's arms.

The demon is motionless, his breathing calming gradually.

It never fails to humble Aziraphale a little, that after all he does to him in a scene, Crowley still turns to him without the slightest hesitation; pushing his body against Aziraphale's and holding on in the sheer certainty that he's safe here, utterly secure.

Protectiveness flares through Aziraphale, and ere he knows it his wings have unfolded, wrapping them both in a cocoon of white feathers. The darkness will be soothing to Crowley – he's rather light sensitive.

Eventually, Crowley stops shivering. Well, his body does. His arms will need a while. He can barely lift them. In true Crowley fashion, it doesn't take long for that to make him restless, and Aziraphale tightens his grip around him.

"Let's move this to the couch, my dear."

Crowley nods, not coming up from his hiding place. Apparently, he's not up for moving.

No matter. Aziraphale closes his eyes, concentrating, and then the coffee table is pushed to the side and the couch unfolded into a makeshift bed, with both of them on it amid piles of pillows and blankets.

Crowley hisses. It's not a sound of pain this time. He stretches his legs, sprawled over Aziraphale, and looks up at him with half-lidded, unfocused eyes.

Aziraphale blinks. "Oh, my."

Another hiss, more questioning this time.

"No, it's alright. I hadn't expected you to go under in the aftermath."

The yellow eyes turn puzzled, blinking slowly.

"Shh," Aziraphale says, drawing him back down onto his chest. "You're safe, dear boy. My dear, good boy."

Crowley shudders. A hint of a smile plays around his lips, absent and blissful.

Aziraphale kisses the edge of it, amused when the demon tries to follow him upon drawing back. "Are you exhausted, sweetheart? Hungry? I have some snacks in the kitchen. Let me up and I'll fetch them."

Crowley rolls off him as best as he can, but whimpers pitifully as soon as Aziraphale tries to get up from the couch. Stiff fingers close around his wrists, their grip alarmingly light.

"No," Crowley whispers, his eyes wide and... scared. "No."

Aziraphale's heart feels like it might be breaking. "Alright," he hurries to say. "Alright, I'm not leaving."

The demon exhales in relief, closing his eyes.

Aziraphale sits next to Crowley's prone form and thinks hard about how much he'd like it if his prepared snacks would just appear. They do, on a tablet no less.

He picks up a piece of watermelon and offers it to Crowley, holding it against his lips. The demon sniffs it curiously, then starts to suck on it. His tongue sneaks out, licking the juice off Aziraphale's fingers.

The angel can't suppress the pleasure that thrusts through him like lightning. The heat in his belly flares. He pushes it down and lets go of the watermelon.

"I'll need my hands," he says apologetically. "I'd like to massage your arms."

Crowley catches the piece between his teeth, though he looks rather put-out at having to do so.

Aziraphale lifts the closest of Crowley's arms onto his lap and starts kneading the muscle, starting at his wrist and working his way up. He's so focused on his task he doesn't notice Crowley is still awake. Not until the demon opens his mouth.

"There was a terrorist attack in Trafalgar square."

The words are small, hoarse.

Aziraphale forces himself not to show any reaction. He moves atop Crowley, switches to the other arm.

"A man. No, a group of men. They can't have planned that alone." He stares up at the ceiling. "They had a bomb."

Aziraphale has to close his suddenly burning eyes.

"I tried to stop it," the demon whispers. "I tried to contain the blast, to get everyone out, but I couldn't save the ones who did it... I- I _failed_."

Oh, Crowley. So full of mercy, even for those who don't deserve it in the least.

Aziraphale lies down beside him, wrapping himself around his beloved demon. He doesn't know what to say, because it's not alright, and it won't ever be.

But Crowley turns into him anyway, clutches him right back, as if he never wants to let him go again. He's not crying but he shivers like he is, and they lie there for a long time, until his grief has exhausted him so much he can't even tremble any more.

Only then does he draw back, but just enough to give himself space to surge up, searching with his lips.

Aziraphale accepts it, lets him in. They kiss, and kiss again.

"Thank you," Crowley whispers in the warm, moist space between their mouths. "Thank you, angel."

"I was too harsh on you," Aziraphale whispers back, heavy and saddened to his core. Maybe also a little bit sick. He should have asked, he should have made Crowley tell him before-

"No. No, angel, never." Crowley shakes his head fiercely. His hands curl over Aziraphale's shoulders, shaking him. "I- I would have driven myself mad without you. Still would."

"I'm here." Aziraphale kisses him again. "I'll always be here when you need me, Crowley."

The demon's yellow eyes all but shine in the dark. "I know. That's why I came to find you. You help. You always do."

They are so tangled up in each other, Aziraphale barely knows where one ends and the other begins. Yet, all he wants to do is hold him tighter. Mingle their essences until they're one being, inseparable. Never alone. "My dear boy..."

Crowley breathes into his mouth. "It's why I love you."

Aziraphale feels like he can't breathe. But it's just a feeling - angels, just like humans, cannot die from happiness. "And I, you."


End file.
